


Playing by Ear

by RileyC



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:58:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim had some hope he might be granted an audience with Gotham's reclusive Prince. He never anticipated what secrets might come to light in the process...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing by Ear

**Author's Note:**

> rae_redqueen offered this prompt on nowweretwo: Gordon's at the Manor and by chance he picks out the notes on the piano that open the entrance to the Cave. She wanted it to be an alternate to Dark Knight Rises but since I still haven't seen that :waaaah: this was the best I could do.
> 
>  
> 
> That Gary Oldman once played Beethoven (in Immortal Beloved) played no factor in the choosing of the musical selections. ;-) (The piece at the end is supposed to be Für Elise.)
> 
> Also, I know it should be an elevator. Stairs offer more drama, however, and that's why I switched it up.

Jim knew he could have simply picked up the phone and called. As he sat in his car and looked at the turrets and Gothic arches of Wayne Manor it was easy to second guess the impulse that had brought him out here—on a dark and stormy night, no less. 

  
He would most likely be turned away. He would certainly be refused a face to face meeting. There was no reason that the news he brought couldn’t be conveyed, second hand, by Mr. Pennyworth. It was just that, damn it, this concerned Jim, too, and some things needed to be said in person. With that thought in mind, Jim got out of his car and hurried through the rain up to the front door. Huddled in that scant shelter, his raincoat barely any protection from the damp, he rang the bell once, twice, and waited.  
  
He didn’t need to check his watch to sense that a lot of seconds ticked past as he waited. Enough to add up to a minute and then some. He was about to ring the bell again, or turn to leave—he hadn’t quite decided—when the door was opened at last and Alfred Pennyworth peered out.  
  
“Commissioner Gordon.” The tone was cordial but neutral, with no immediate invitation to step in out of the rain.  
  
“Mr. Pennyworth.” Jim nodded. “Is Mr. Wayne at home?”  
  
Not a flicker of reaction betrayed Pennyworth’s thoughts. “I am afraid that Mr. Wayne is not receiving visitors just at the moment.”  
  
“I think he might want to make an exception. I think he’ll want to hear my news.”  
  
Interesting, that elicited a microscopic upward twitch of an eyebrow as Pennyworth said, “I shall be glad to deliver your message to him, Commissioner.”  
  
Jim knew he should accept that politely and go. He was tired of being polite, though. “I’m afraid I have to insist, Mr. Pennyworth,” he said and then played his trump card. “It’s about his parents.”  
  
“His parents?” Surprise and speculation passed rapidly across Pennyworth’s face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”  
  
“Just tell him that.” Jim pressed his slight advantage. “Tell him I have news about his parents and if he still refuses to see me I’ll accept that and leave.” In his line of work, you learned to rely on your hunches and his told Jim that Alfred Pennyworth would really be quite pleased if this ploy succeeded and lured Bruce Wayne out of his self-imposed exile.  
  
Pennyworth let him inside at least and took his raincoat. When Jim declined an offer of coffee, tea, or something stronger, Pennyworth showed him to the library and left Jim there—“Please, make yourself comfortable, Commissioner.”—with a promise to return shortly.  
  
Jim suspected it might take some little while and he honestly had no clue as to the outcome. There was still every chance he would be unceremoniously shown to the door. No sense anticipating disaster, he decided as he looked around at the luxuriously appointed room. Rich wood and leather, glass and metal that caught the firelight and gleamed with its warmth—it was the kind of room that invited relaxation and Jim could even picture himself there, lounging in one of those club chairs with one of these books open on his knee. But not tonight. Tonight, he could only hope his restless pacing didn’t wear out the expensive carpet.  
  
He passed by a square table, an ivory shawl of silk and lace artfully arranged across it to protect the polished wood from being scraped by a group of framed photographs set out there. Jim slipped off his glasses, polished the lenses and put them back on again to take a closer look at those pictures. None of them had been taken more recently than thirty years ago, he thought as he picked one up. Young Bruce Wayne with his parents, maybe just weeks before Crime Alley, forever frozen in time. He shook his head, unaccountably saddened by that, and carefully put the photograph back.  
  
With a sigh, he drifted over to a beautiful baby grand piano, its lid propped open and sheet music on the rack. Something by Beethoven, he saw, _Sonata No. 8 in C Minor "Pathetique", Op. 13_ , the staff covered with what looked to his eyes like an explosion of musical notes. A brief interlude of childhood piano lessons that hadn’t progressed much beyond _Yankee Doodle_ left him ill-equipped to decipher them at any rate. He did wonder who played. He supposed it might be Pennyworth. For a moment, though, Jim pictured quite a different figure seated at the Steinway in full regalia, hands poised over the keys. Absurd as it was, it made him smile for a moment.  
  
He idly touched the keys, not enough to produce any sound. It could be soothing, he supposed, to sit here and play; to let the music cleanse away the nights’ brutality and pain. He pressed the keys more firmly and began to wonder if Pennyworth would ever return. His optimism, never that enthusiastic to start with, began to flag with every second that ticked off the grandfather clock.  
  
Almost certain he was on a fool’s errand, Jim pressed down hard on a succession of keys. The notes sounded loudly in the stillness and startled him. Sheepish, he glanced around and took out his notebook and pen to leave a message—and froze in place as a panel in the wall slid open to reveal a flight of steps that led downward into an impenetrable darkness.  
  
He glanced around again, feeling as guilty as if he had been caught helping himself to some of the priceless works of art displayed around the room. Another moment and he shook that off with a stern admonition to himself not to be so dramatic. Of course this place would have secret passageways and hidden rooms. What creepy old mansion was complete without a priest hole or two?  
  
Why did he get the idea that this was something more? He knew it with a certainty deep in his bones, though, even as he told himself it was none of his business. Suspicions were one thing; anyone could toss around speculation without it mattering one way or another. What he didn’t _know_ couldn’t harm anyone, wouldn’t change anything. And all he knew right at this moment was that, yes, there was a hidden passage here in the Manor. Even if Pennyworth or Bruce Wayne himself appeared in the next few seconds no questions needed to be asked or answered. He could walk away now and maintain the status quo.  
  
Pandora-like, though—if that was the right analogy—Jim took that first step, then another, the warmth and light of the library soon left behind as he proceeded down steps hewn out the rock. He came to another dead stop a couple of steps from the bottom, and any future chance of denial was torn from him as his gaze fell first on the car and then drifted to the costume over in a corner, cowl and cloak and everything displayed like a fantastical suit of armor.  
  
Absurdly, the first thought that popped into his head was… _Whoa, cool_.  
  
“I think I need to sit down,” he murmured aloud.  
  
“I imagine you do,” spoke a voice from the steps. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. One he had first heard in his darkened office with what he later learned was a stapler pressed to his back. _‘Now we’re two.’_  
  
Bruce Wayne stood there, looking a bit haggard and weary, dressed in jeans and a sweater that hung a bit too loosely on his frame. He leaned heavily on a cane as he carefully negotiated the last steps, all trace of the fluid grace Jim remembered absent. Odd, the pang that brought him.  
  
Jim swiftly recollected himself and dragged a chair over. “Here.”  
  
Bruce Wayne nodded his thanks and lowered himself onto the chair.  
  
“Master Bruce?” Pennyworth appeared and stood there, no thought or reaction betrayed by his expression as he regarded the pair of them.  
  
“It’s all right, Alfred. Would you bring us some coffee, please?”  
  
“Of course.” Pennyworth nodded to them and withdrew, leaving them to guardedly study each other there in the cave.  
  
It struck Jim after a few moments that what truly shocked him was his lack of surprise about all of this. Who else would Batman be, after all? Once you knew for a certainty, nothing else could possibly make sense. It would take some getting used to but was in no way the most formidable challenge the two of them had ever faced. He couldn’t quite superimpose the Dark Knight over the all too vulnerable, flesh-and-blood man who watched him with quiet intent, but that would come in time.  
  
Jim found a second chair and brought it over. “I never actually imagined it would be a cave.”  
  
“It is where you most often find bats.”  
  
Jim nodded. “I suppose it is.” He studied him some more and took particular note of cheekbones that were just a bit too prominent, that dark smudges under his eyes that spoke of difficulty sleeping, and the careful way he held himself. All of them clues that pointed to a man on the road to recovery after a long illness or potentially life-altering injury, with some little distance yet to go. “Are you all right?”  
  
“Zigged when I should have zagged.” A minute and deliberately casual shrug followed the answer. “The other guy looks worse.”  
  
“Well that’s reassuring,” Jim said, and smiled at the small joke. Further details might be forthcoming when this wasn’t so strange and new. He’d like to think so anyway, and the oddness of all of this did strike him then as he considered how much there really was to discover about this man. One occurred to right now. “What do I call you?”  
  
“Bruce?”  
  
 _Bruce_ … “I’ll have to work up to that,” Jim said and then caught a glimpse of something new: a faint and fleeting smile on the face that had always lurked behind the mask. “I’ve never seen you smile. Not _you_.” If that made any sense. Jim had his doubts it did.  
  
Self-conscious now, Batman—that was the only way Jim could think of him for now—glanced away, up at the stairs as Pennyworth reappeared with a tray of coffee and cups. “You said you had news about my parents?” Batman asked as Pennyworth handed cups around and pulled up his own chair.  
  
For a moment, Jim experienced a vivid flash of déjà vu. In that instant, it could have been thirty years ago, with him sitting with the boy, Bruce, as Pennyworth arrived to take charge of him. He could still remember the looks on both their faces. The boy—shell-shocked and not even able to cry yet, and Pennyworth, contained and zipped up tight even then, if you didn’t look at his eyes. Thirty years, and it could have all been yesterday.  
  
He took off his glasses to scrub the lenses again, and if he was honest with himself to buy a few more seconds. All of a sudden he was convinced he had turned into a drama queen and was making a huge fuss over nothing.  
  
He replaced his glasses, cleared his throat because he had to say _something_ after all this, and said, “It’s this show on television, one of those true crime documentaries, _Crime Célèbre_. They reenact crimes, usually murders, that involve the rich and famous. They dredge up every lurid detail and invent some if they have to, with so-called experts along to offer their opinions about all of the hows and whys of the crime, usually playing up some sensational new evidence that’s been uncovered.” He paused a moment to study the man across from him for some sign of how this news was going over. Not surprisingly, he couldn’t read much, although the way Batman’s jaw tightened minutely gave away quite a bit. “They’re here in Gotham,” he went on. “They’re going to feature your parents’ murder in a future episode.”  
  
“What’s their angle?” Batman asked.  
  
“Alleged accomplices, police corruption that buried key evidence.” Jim shot a glance at Pennyworth. “Some suggestion of key figures with real motives to commit the crime.”  
  
Pennyworth’s eyebrows shot up as he connected those dots. “Well I never,” he declared, disbelief written across his features. “Last I heard libel was still against the law.”  
  
“They just have to include a disclaimer that what follows is a speculative dramatization based on unnamed sources,” Batman said. “Vagueness covers a lot of sins.” A grimace of discomfort flitted across his features as he shifted in the chair. “You’re being singled out for the police corruption angle?”  
  
Jim shrugged, not that concerned about his part in it all. “Apparently my meteoric, twenty years in the making, rise to commissioner looks suspicious,” he said, straight faced.  
  
“Yes, I can see how it would.” Batman’s reply was just as dry. He looked at Pennyworth then. “And you, having me declared dead and then living it up here while I was away; you should have known that would come back to bite you.”  
  
Jim hadn’t realized how much Pennyworth had tensed up at the news he had delivered until he watched the older man visibly relax at Batman’s words. “Yes, well,” Pennyworth said, a twinkle in his eye, “the sins of riotous living will come home to roost when one least expects them. Shall I alert the lawyers, sir?”  
  
Batman—no, _Bruce_ ; Jim tried it out in his head and found the name came to him more easily now—Bruce nodded and said, “But in the morning.” He looked back at Jim. “Thank you for telling me. It’s…not the kind of thing I’d want to learn about in the morning papers.”  
  
Jim nodded and smiled. “You never have to thank me, either,” he said. Their eyes locked, both remembering, and Bruce nodded his acknowledgment after a moment.  
  
“And now,” Pennyworth stood up, “I would suggest taking this upstairs where warmth and light is to be found.” He didn’t point out that the chill damp of the cave wasn’t doing Bruce any good but his meaning was clear.  
  
As Bruce levered himself up from the chair, Jim took his cue from Pennyworth and didn’t step forward to offer assistance until Bruce wobbled for a split second and Pennyworth gave Jim a sharp nod of instruction. Jim acknowledged the command briefly and put out a hand to touch Bruce’s shoulder to steady him on his feet. Bruce recognized their actions with a look, a smile just barely tugging the corners of his mouth.  
  
“I’ll give you a real tour next time,” he said as he started back up the stairs.  
  
As Jim followed, he couldn’t decide which part of that simple statement was the most astonishing, the prospect of a guided tour of the Cave, or the implicit declaration that Jim would visit here again. He had to conclude it was largely a draw.  
  


~*~

  
  
“Do you play?” They were back in the library, with more coffee, along with sandwiches, provided by Pennyworth before the butler went off to attend to some vital household matter. Bruce had paused by the piano to run his fingers lightly along the keys Jim had so inadvertently discovered. As he looked at him there, Jim was inevitably reminded of that earlier image that had passed through his mind, of Batman sitting down there to pick out a tune after doing battle with Gotham’s criminals.  
  
Bruce looked over at him and carefully settled down on the padded bench. “A little bit. My mother taught me.” He looked at the sheet music set out on the rack and played a few notes, producing a fairly somber and wistful melody. He frowned a bit and shook his head, and shuffled through the pages until he found something more to his liking. “You’ll recognize this one,” he said and began to play.  
  
Jim listened and nodded after a moment. “Hey!” He smiled. “I know that—that’s what Schroder’s always playing in _Peanuts_.”  
  
And yes, he had hoped that might prod another smile out of Bruce, but he wasn’t quite prepared for a full out grin to be flashed his way for an instant.  
  
The storm had raged on outside, and soon the dead would be disturbed in the name of television ratings, but for now all was peaceful and Jim felt very much inclined to enjoy it while he could.


End file.
